Astral ProjecJohn
by DilynAliceBlake
Summary: One day, to escape abuse by his drunk father, young John accidentally shoves himself onto the astral plain. He begins exploring a path and apparently somehow saves Sherlock from an all encompassing depression/feeling of betrayal/loneliness/self-hate/complete disconnect from emotion. I'm not sure. They do end up irrevocably bound together, so there is that. Unbeta'd.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Don't whine at me about technicalities. It is my imaginary astral overlaying-underlaying dream plain and if I want to just make stuff up that feels right I can. **

The first time John did it was an accident. He had curled in on himself to hide from his father's anger, and was just trying to get _away_ when suddenly there was a rather harsh sort of shove from inside himself, and then a disconnect. He looked down at his own body, eyes glazed and skin mottled with bruises, and wondered if maybe he were dead. If that were the case then John thought he must be a ghost. Ghosts, young John Watson was quite sure, could do things. Cool things, like walking through walls and flying.

He could not, he was sad to discover, fly. Though he could walk through or on any number of things he usually couldn't. He could also, apparently, see colors that he thought ought not exist. Everything around him seemed to be the wrong color, and much wavier than usual. There were also paths. Paths that looked long but he somehow knew would not take long to walk, and paths that looked short but whose destinations seemed controversially distant. Some of the paths were moving, seeming to slide sideways or slither languidly. John suddenly had the weird impression that he wasn't a ghost at all, he was just _on top_ of where he usually was. It was an odd notion, and one he quickly cast aside. There his body was over there, devoid of the wavy coloration of everything else, and he wasn't on top of it. He was all the way across the room.

Inevitably, John's exploring spirit took hold, and he gazed at each of the hundreds of overlaying paths, trying to pick a color to walk on. Each one had a sort of feel to it, like when the music teacher had tapped the bell and John had felt it in his chest and in his head and in his skin all at once. They _resonated_ with feelings. Emotions and energy. John found himself drawn to a path that was somehow simultaneously verdigris, purple, and green all at once. The path sang with _inquisitive_ness, and it made him terribly curious. Shortly after he began to walk it, however, the entire thing underwent an abrubt shock of hurt and betrayal, before wrapping itself up in shadow. The path was suddenly achingly bored, as well as ferociously hostile, impatient, and sickly hollow.

Even though it hurt, and took every ounce of his determination, John had decided on this path, and was _going_ to see it to its end. Time passed oddly, like syrup on a spinning dish. When he thought of his home and the way time passed there, John thought of yarn with a few knots and kinks and thin places. His mind kept providing him with strange imaginings that didn't make much sense. For some reason he didn't think it was one of those things destined to clear itself up when he was older. He didn't mind. Some things just weren't for him to understand.

Rather abruptly he arrived at the place the path ended. Or, rather, the path he thought he was on was suddenly gone, and he was somewhere different. The color he had been following was a boy, just a bit smaller than himself.

"Hello?" John tried. He watched, entranced, as what should have been a noise exited his being in a liquid glob of eager looking gold. It searched outwards until it hit the boy, and the figure made of nothing but color looked up and around, as if searching out the source. It occured to John that the figure probably wouldn't be able to see him. But since they had reacted, they had obviously been somehow affected by his greeting.

John hadn't felt much like what he said was the cause. The color had been made of his feelings themselves, and come from his chest. Not where his heart was, but in the dead center, about two inches below his collar bones. So he tried to shove more feelings at the forlorn boy, his own sadness, and a feeling of companionship and comfort. He said words in his head to help.

_I know it hurts. I'm hurt, too. You aren't the only one who's lonely, you know. I will be lonely with you. We can be lonely together. So now neither of us are quite as alone. It's okay. Even if it doesn't get better, I'm here. We can both hurt. You feel sad. _John wrapped his arms around the other boy as much as he was able. _Together. Don't feel lonely. Even if you don't see me, I still care. No matter what I will care for you. That will make me happy, even if you don't know it's me. Unconditional. It's okay._

When the boy's colors seemed to be lightening back to their normal shade and John was feeling quite exhausted from the effort he had made, he unwrapped himself slowly from where he had slid to kneel hugging the other boy. He felt an odd sort of stickiness as he pulled away, as if the other boy was trying to cling to him as well as he could from where ever he was underneath the colours. When John looked a smear of gold was fading into the boy's chest, from the same spot where his greeting had come from. When, looking down at himself he saw a mirror of the blotch in the boy's own colors (even the shadow of hurt overlaying the brighter tones), John felt something that sparked a realization. The colors weren't fading at all. They were _sinking_ into him, and his into the other's.

_It's okay._ He said again, to the boy who was starting to tremble at the loss of contact. _We're linked now. I'll be able to find you again. I'm not abandoning you. I'm with you. _John tapped the boy's chest where his colours had sunk in. _I'll be back. No matter what I won't leave you alone._

John was quite sure of this, for even though the dark shadow of loneliness and emptiness and contempt had marked the boy (quite permanently it seemed) John had kept it from consuming him. He had kept it from smothering all those other colours and crushing that proud inquisitive being. John had _protected_ him. The feeling brought with it a rush of rightness. Then, everything went completely black, and the next thing John would be aware of would be the steady beeping of a hospital moniter and Harry's small hand crushing his in her worry.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sherlock and Mycroft's parents will be out of character from the series. Just FYI.**

Sherlock Holmes was a clever child, curious and precocious; from a very young age bringing a bit of havoc into an otherwise strictly orderly household.

He knew, intelligent as he was, that his mummy loved Mycroft more than him, but that was okay because Mycroft loved _him_ more than Mummy. Mycroft loved Sherlock more than anything else in the world, and Sherlock eagerly returned that love in kind. His entire universe when he was small seemed to revolve around the serious boy.

"Mycroft! Mycroft, look what I've done!"

"Oh, that is very clever of you indeed, brother. ...Are those Mummy's hair curlers?"

"They _were._ It's an experiment."

And there, just a slight twitch at the edges of Mycroft's lips, just enough to indicate that his sterness was hard pressed to fight off a smile. Sherlock's heart soared at the sight.

"Is that going to be for your pirate ship?" Mycroft queried. Sherlock's curls bounced as he bobbed his head affirmatively.

"Well, Sherlock, I'm quite impressed. Now, do you think you could help me study?"

Sherlock loved to help Mycroft study. Usually it consisted of him taking all of Mycroft's work materials and hiding them away, refusing to give them back until Mycroft recited his notes verbatum. It involved a good deal of correcting Mycroft, something Sherlock rarely got the chance to do. It was all great fun, and he was happy.

Sherlock's idyllic world was shattered the day his doting older brother told him that he would be leaving him. Sherlock looked up at Mycroft with eyes filled with tears.

"School? It's because I'm not good enough, isn't it? I can do better! I won't make you play pirates with me anymore, we can do grown-up things. I'll think of better ways to help you study! Don't leave me alone!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, as if Sherlock were being melodramatic. "I'm hardly _abandoning_ you Sherlock. You'll still have Mummy and Father, and I'll come back for the holidays."

The tears spilled over, streaking down his youthful chubby cheeks as he struggled to make his brother understand.

"IT'S NOT THE SAME! Mother loves _you_ best, she's always loved you best. Father might as well be a statue, another piece of furniture in that ridiculous office of his. _Please_ Mycroft."

They were valid points, and Mycroft couldn't argue them. That would not, however, stop him from arguing.

"Oh, come now, you didn't honestly think that things could go on the way they have been forever, did you? It's time to _grow up,_ Sherlock!"

Sherlock reared back as if slapped, eyes wide in shock. Mycroft winced at the look of betrayal an his brother's face.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean-"

But it was too late. Sherlock ran out of the room, finding an empty study and locking himself in, then plopping to the ground, hugging his knees tight to his chest. Sherlock sat in the center of the great sprawling manner which had surrounded him since birth, and thought that the numerous halls and rooms might as well have been completely empty for all the companionship they offered him.

He ponderred a future surrounded by that emptyness, conducting experiments he would be the only to see the results of, being eyed warily by his mother and ignored completely by his father. The more he thought on the emptiness, the emptier he felt. He imagined Mycroft coming home from holidays and exclaiming like their aunt over how _big_ he'd gotten, talking to Sherlock in that condescending tone. As if he were a _baby_.

"_Grow up, Sherlock!_" Mycroft's words echoed in his mind, laced with superiority and disgust. "_Grow up, Sherlock!_" It seemed so distant, now. Like it no longer mattered. Like there was a thick curtain of resentment suddenly muffling the opinions of his family. "_Grow up._" Why should he? What difference did it make?

He would, he decided, be young and defiant forever. Not _boring_ like Mycroft and Father were, or simperingly emotional like Mother. He was _fine._ He didn't need them. He didn't _need _them!

Suddenly Sherlock felt an odd shiver of warmth, as if the manor itself were trying to greet him and ask what was wrong. He glanced around, but the room was empty save himself, and walls couldn't have feelings.

**I know it hurts. I'm hurt, too.** The words were whispered into his very heart. That didn't make _sense_. There was no one there. He was alone. _He was alone._

**You aren't the only one who's lonely, you know. **

_What?_

**I will be lonely with you. We can be lonely together. So now neither of us are quite as alone.**

Sherlock sniffled, slightly comforted in spite of himself.

**It's okay. Even if it doesn't get better, I'm here.**

"...It hurts. I never knew I could hurt this much..." Sherlock whispered the words, even if there was no one to hear them.

**We can both hurt. **

Sherlock wondered if his mother had been right all this time, and he really was crazy. Mycroft had always insisted to her that he was just _advanced_, and that he needed the additional stimulation of experimenting. There wasn't anything wrong with him. Except now Mycroft was leaving, so maybe there was, after all. Maybe Mycroft couldn't stand his weirdness anymore and decided he would be happier around normal people.

**You feel sad. **Sherlock suddenly felt as if he were being enveloped in a ghostly hug, warm all the way down to his core. He wondered if this is what pixie dust felt like.

**Together. Don't feel lonely. **

'That's right,' he thought. 'I'm not all alone'. The mysterious creature was here with him.

**Even if you don't see me, I still care.**

Suddenly the memory of Mycroft's voice seemed sharp again.

"Even if I don't grow up? If I stay immature forever and experiment on things Mummy thinks I shouldn't?"

**No matter what I will care for you.**

"Why?! Why, when no one else does, will you? I don't even know who or what you are!"

**That will make me happy, even if you don't know it's me. **

"Why? What do you get out of this? I hurt so much already! What about when you get bored with me? When I stop being interesting? Will your _care_ still last then?" he challenged scornfully.

_**Unconditional**_**. It's okay.**

Sherlock felt the presence start to pull away, noticing absentmindedly that it was close to his size. If he had had to personify it he would have said the invisible creature was a boy about his age. Those little observations didn't seem to matter, though, when the presence _was_ _starting to pull away._

"No! No, I just met you! Don't you leave me, too! Not ever! _Never leave me! I don't want to be alone!_" He grasped futilely at the invisible feeling of companionship. The word 'alone' echoed tauntingly in his head.

**It's okay.**

Sherlock stopped trembling. He wasn't alone. Not yet. "You're leaving." His voice quaivered with tears.

**We're linked now. I'll be able to find you again. **

"Do you swear it? Swear you won't just leave and never come back. Mycroft's already left me. Swear that you won't, too."

**I'm not abandoning you. I'm with you. **

Suddenly Sherlock became aware of it, the feeling of that presence in his chest even as its 'body' pulled away. He wasn't being abandoned again. Relief flooded him.

**I'll be back. **

Now that Sherlock was aware of the link in his chest he felt more sure of what the creature was saying. It was easy to believe when he felt the truth of it.

**No matter what I won't leave you alone.**

The feeling of conviction that came with that statement was reassuring. Sherlock wasn't alone. The creature, _his creature, _would be back for him. It cared. Sherlock gave a watery smile.

"Goodbye, creature," he whispered. "Come back soon."

He really, _really_, hoped that it would.


	3. Chapter 3

**Apologies for the delay. Computer breakdown. Sherlock's POV. **_**Next**_** chapter Mycroft. Decided this needed a splash of myth. SH needed a more tangible ally.**

Sherlock scowled at the psychiatrist. "Can I go now?"

She looked a little bit like Tinkerbell, (_vain, early twenties, green suit, blonde hair in a bun, heavily reliant on significant other, likes strawberris, right handed, has two cats_), which was why he had put up with the sessions this long he supposed.

Still, at this point they were just a waste of time. She raised her eyebrows at him, as if he were ridiculous.

"I know enough about psychology to be able to tell when a child is trying to rig the tests to see what results might pop up. I'm a bit bored with this too, you know."

Sherlock frowned, crinkling his brow. When he had first learned about the sessions he had been nervous, apparently so much so that his creature had sensed it. A warm buzz of reassurance and amusement had flooded him. Since then he had, admittedly, been doing different things to try and get a reaction out of the psychiatrist.

_Except_, _except that... _"You aren't a psychiatrist at all! I knew there was something off about how interesting you found the experiment with the cat!"

"Well, if it was already dead when you _found_ it then I didn't have a _reason_ to be disturbed did I?"

"How did you even pass the background check; my mum thinks you're a proffessional!"

The lady pouted. Sherlock was again flooded with the mental image of Tinkerbell in relation to the mysterious woman.

"I took a course in tenth grade, and I skimmed a few books before showing up. I wasn't lying when I said I had _studied_ psychology. It isn't my fault if people tend to avoid questioning me."

"This entire ordeal has been completely pointless!"

Suddenly her demeanor screamed mischief. Sherlock was reminded of himself. It was more scary than he had thought such a thing would be.

"I wouldn't say that. Like you said, _your mother _thinks that I actually am a psychiatrist. She's bloody awful, by the way. I could write you up a nice 'sociopath' diagnosis. She'll save face with her insipid peers about your insensitivity, you'll get to go on being a cocky little git; win-win I'd say."

Sherlock considered this. Really, what she was suggesting was in his best interest, he had no reason _not_ to let her assist in his distancing himself from his horrid family. That settled, on to other things.

"...So, why are you here, then?"

Suddenly Sherlock felt a tug where his creature's emotions usually were. Only this reminded him of Tinkerbell. _It's her_, Sherlock realized. _She must know something about that being!_

"Just sensed a little something and came to check it out for myself. You're very lucky, you know, to have a bond like this. You two really ought to be careful though. No need to wander about that place now that you've found each other. That story of the man lost in dreams for a hundred years wasn't too far off the mark."

Sherlock's posture snapped up, his slouch gone and his keen mind at full attention trying to observe any sort of tell that might mean she was lying. "He's real?"

She looked at him with more seriousness than all the rest of their sessions together had seemed to inspire in her.

"Oh yes, Sherlock. Don't ever let _anyone_ tell you that magick isn't real. It's hidden all around you in a thousand un-deductable little ways, Mr. Holmes."

For a moment, he could have sworn that the phony psychiatrist had _pointy ears_ of all things, but it was gone in a flash, and she was grinning at him again, full of mischief.

"So, let's get this sociopath shtick to really sell, yeah? Don't worry, you won't really have to change your demeanor much. I gather you have an older brother who could benefit from being knocked off his high horse?"

Sherlock decided the sessions with the psychiatrist weren't a waste of time after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Finally getting a glimpse of Mycroft's POV! :)**

Sherlock's sessions with the psychiatrist had been over for six weeks when Mycroft came home for his first break.

The Sherlock Holmes that Mycroft came home to was _not_ the one he had left behind in early fall. Looking at his younger brother's neatly pressed clothes, cold eyes, and complete lack of interest in him, Mycroft wondered exactly how much had changed in his short absence.

Around the dinner table there was heavy silence whenever Mycroft wasn't talking. Mummy looked strained. Father was working. Sherlock looked absolutely _bored_. '_Leave him be,'_ Mycroft thought. _'He's probably still in a tizzy over the fact that you left to begin with.'_

Suddenly there was the loud screech of Sherlock's chair being shoved away from the table. He began to stride away without being dismissed. Mycroft was appalled at his manners. Usually Sherlock was eager to leave, yes, scrambling his way through the courses restlessly before squirming down to go play. This was different. Sherlock had barely touched his food at all, and there was a stillness about him which made Mycroft distinctly uncomfortable.

"Really, Sherlock, I realize you might still be upset with me, but that's no reason to be rude to _Mummy_."

Sherlock spun to face their mother, seeming somewhere between his previous boredom and an almost-but-not-quite curiousity.

"You haven't told him? In your letters? You must have written to him."

"No, I- Doctor Mortada said he had been a grounding presence, that you'd used him as a sort of behavioral guide, and I thought-"

"No."

"You used to value his opinion, Sherlock, I saw how close you two were-"

"_Were_. Past tense. That is entirely my point. I have an experiment. I'll just be going." Sherlock turned to leave again.

"An experiment, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, showing an interest in an attempt to diffuse the situation, looking for some balance in the familiar with as much as he felt was currently going over his head. None of it made sense, these things couldn't possibly actually lead to the conclusion they were pointing to. "Something to do with more of Mummy's hair products?"

Sherlock turned his flat gaze on him. "No. Going to dysect a pig actually, then see how different vegetable peels affect the decomposition of the organs."

"He's not _serious,_ is he?" Mycroft looked to their mother worriedly, only to discover that she and father had left the room. Oh. Well then. "You aren't _serious_ are you, Sherlock?"

"Hmm, yes, quite. The cat is already coming along quite nicely. Would you like to see? It's back left leg is-"

"No, no, no. That's quite alright. Ah, how about a nice game of pirates?"

"Don't you think that's a little _childish_, Mycroft?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, you used to love to play pirates. It wasn't _that_ long ago, you know."

"I did. That's what little boys are _supposed_ to do, isn't it?" Mycroft's blood turned to ice in his veins at that sentence. Sherlock continued, oblivious. "Play games like pirates and pester their siblings? It seemed plenty effective an interaction method to me at the time. Surely I couldn't have misread _that_ many signals."

Those same icy eyes stared at Mycroft, empty of teasing, of understanding, of anything but a mild inquisitiveness. No fondness at memories, no pleasure at seeing him, no excitement at the mention of the game, not even anger aimed at him for having left.

Suddenly Mycroft realized that this was a _genuine_ question. Sherlock wasn't _pretending_ not to care. Mycroft Holmes had never been more horrified in his life.

He glared at Sherlock. Scrambled for an argument that would end what had to be a very elaborate charade.

"What about Redbeard?"

"Oh, well, he's not nearly so decomposed as the cat, but if you want to compare-"

"Stop it! Stop this! That's not what I meant! Decomposed as the-? No! Stop this _now_, Sherlock. You are _not_ a sociopath! This isn't _amusing_!" He didn't yell. It would have ruined his point. He tried to adress Sherlock calmly, commanding with emphasis. His anger still leaked through. He hoped the worry and fear weren't detectable.

"Amusing? No, I don't suppose you would think it to be. Mummy was quite pleased with the diagnosis. It rather assauged her guilt at having treated one of her children as defective for basically the entirety of its life, having proof that it was _true_."

"Cease this ruse at once, Sherlock Holmes! You shouldn't say such things about Mummy!"

Sherlock leaned towards Mycroft, intrigued.

"You're exhibiting what are quite obviously quite several extreme symptoms of denial. It's rather interesting. Tell me, what are you thinking right now? Do you feel panicked? May I take your pulse?"

"This isn't _you_, Sherlock. You need to stop this. If you don't I'll-" Mycroft scoured his brain for something, _anything_ to give him the upper hand. Then he found it. A threat that had always given him one up on Sherlock. "I'll say _it_."

Sherlock smiled a cold mockery of a smile, smug and daring all at once. He scrambled up into a chair and then made himself comfortable, radiating amused expectance.

"I-I-" Mycroft stuttered, unsure at the visible inaffectiveness his usual proverbial ace was having. "_I do not believe in fairies_!"

Each slow, sarcastic clap from Sherlock's gloved hands felt like a nail in Mycroft's coffin.

"Oh, well done Mycroft. Now me. I do not believe in fairies. I _do not_ believe in fairies. I do _not_ believe in fairies. I don't believe in fairies. Are we done now? One more for kicks, maybe? No? Moving on then. I'm assuming you don't want to see the decomposition of the cat? ...No, of course not, you're probably in shock. Pity. I'll be seeing you, Big Brother. Hope you enjoy your holiday." Sherlock slid off of the chair and strode out of the room, composedly gliding more than anyone who had once been such a ball of gittery buzzing energy had any right to, expecially so young. (Unknown to Mycroft, Sherlock had it on what he considered to be rather good authority that saying such things did _not_ in fact kill fairies. That wasn't the point.)

Horrified was an understatement when it came to Mycroft's emotions that evening. The range of his reactions were many, none positive, but the worst aspect of his reflection was what their mother had said. Mycroft wasn't stupid. He had been listening to her and Sherlock's conversation. Collecting the pieces that at the time had refused to fit. Hadn't, in fact, fit until the entire frame was torn apart and all his puzzle pieces turned to glass and razors, cutting as he placed them.

This was _his _fault. Sherlock had _trusted_ him. Mycroft had had something that he _knew_ was precious, and taken it for granted. Now Sherlock might never trust anyone again. Might never let himself close to _anyone_ for fear of getting hurt. Hurt like Mycroft had hurt him. What had he been _thinking?_ He could have gotten tutors, made connections later in life. Adding a few years to his expected rise to power would have been an _infintesimal_ price to pay to keep his little brother happy.

Sherlock had warned him, had _begged_ him, and Mycroft had thrown the emotions back in his face, calling him childish. What he wouldn't give to have that clingy, warm-hearted little boy back. The one with the rumpled clothes, scraped knees, and cheerful giggles.

How long must that time have been for Sherlock, those few short months Mycroft had spent practically carefree, digging his way into early political life? What sort of tests had his little brother gone through to reach a conclusion that Mummy would tolerate?

Who was this insensitive analytical child? Certainly not that same boy who had nearly cried at the death of a _bumblebee_.

_Why_ did Sherlock no longer _believe in fairies_?

'_Don't kid yourself, Mycroft.' _he thought. '_You __**know**__ why. __**You**__ did this. It's your fault. It will __**always **__be your fault. No apology in the world can change that.'_

That night was the first that Mycroft attempted to bury his guilt in pastries and confections. It would not be the last.


	5. Chapter 5

John liked to "listen" to the faraway boy whenever he was going about his day. At first this took a lot of his concentration, but as time went on John became accustomed to "conversing" through the connection constantly, exchanging emotions and abstract ideas. It was through this attentiveness and regular reassurance that young John Watson discovered his love of helping and protecting. This would lead to his eventual decision to become an army doctor.

When John joined the army, Sherlock could feel every instance of danger John lived through. He could feel the panic, the compassion, the worry, that John experienced. It wasn't difficult, even with part of his intellect occupied by the creature's experiences, to deduce that whoever it was had joined some sort of services. Sherlock wasn't sure, living through the fulfillment and exhileration of the being, if he had any right to feel betrayed. Still, the constant worry for his companion got to Sherlock, and eventually he turned to the needle for some relief.

For some time their lives progressed in this way; John trying to comfort a doped up Sherlock between stitching up soldiers, and Sherlock clinging to any comfort from John between hits and fending off Mycroft's nagging. This changed the day John Watson was shot. Sherlock, at the time, was going through another attempt at getting clean at Mycroft's insistance. The thrashing and screaming were taken to be symptoms of withdrawel. The tears and trembling were kindly not mentioned.

Then John's heart stopped. Where before there had been an overabundance of input, suddenly there was a gaping hole in Sherlock's psych. Self-preservation demanded he throw up some sort of mental block, or risk insanity. When, a minute and twelve seconds after it had stopped John's heart restarted, Sherlock was not aware of this fact. In the desert thousands of miles away, John Watson came to a few days later. The first thing he did was reach for the link. He encountered a wall, impenetrable and unresponsive. The loss was traumatizing, and John developed a limp as a physical expression of all that was suddenly wrong with his life.

When John was shipped back to England he began to spiral into a depression. The time he spent wallowing in loss, Sherlock spent trying to get his life together. Then, in a twist of events that was either the height of irony or fate's intervention, Mike Stamfort introduced the two.


	6. Chapter 6

John Watson walked into that room at Bart's, and he _knew_ with all of his being that this, _this_ was the entity who had been on the other end of the link all those years. It was all he could do not to just go up and shake the berk in demand for _some_ kind of explanation. But no, the wall was up, and John would respect that decision. If this man wanted to act like strangers, John could play along. He tried to react with that in mind. It pained him, oh how it pained him, but if it was what was needed of him he could do it. He would put his wants aside for the boy. Well, man now. It was the least he could do.

When John Watson walked into the room, Sherlock Holmes felt absolutely nothing. The wall he had erected in his mind palace having no seams for awareness to leak through, Sherlock glanced up from the microscope and wondered if it would be pathetic to cling to this shadow of a man who so resembled his being. Sherlock noted the tan, and wondered if his creature had been in Afganistan with the stranger. He noted the wound, and wondered if his being had been trying to save this man, perhaps _had _saved this man, before he lost his life. For a split second, Sherlock almost dared to hope—

But no, his creature would never treat him so coldly. No sense enduring the pain of lowering the mental barrier when it was so obvious.

Well, pathetic or no, Sherlock would cling to this connection, however imagined it may be. He gave the stranger his name as charmingly as he could manage, and left in a whirl. Sherlock wouldn't run this "John" off as he had the other potential flatmates. Well, not intentionally.

When John got back to his little hovel he wasted no time in looking up Sherlock. After years of having nothing but the flow of feelings and abstract ideas, and then several agonizing months of _nothing at all_, he had a _name_ to go on, and he would not hesistate to learn everything he could. With their empathetic connection blocked, John wanted to be as close as possible to Sherlock in the physical world. It wouldn't be the same, but judging by their initial meeting it had the potential to be good nonetheless.

John knew that after years of being connectected to the other man he was closer to Sherlock than anyone else he had ever met. It wasn't, however, until he caught himself grinning for what felt like the hundredth time after ages of depression the John entertained the idea he might actually be in love.

In love. With someone he had only _really_ just met that day.

He sighed. "Oh, John Watson, you are a fool."

He smiled softly at the words on the computer screen one last time before closing the laptop resolutely.

"That's enough there, lad," he said to himself. "You're already in a sad enough spot as it is, there's no sense falling any deeper."

In the days to come John would learn the hard way that he wouldn't be getting a choice in the matter.

Sherlock was having trouble. It was fast becoming obvious that he would be fighting with his mind palace every second not to assign John's expressions to the different emotions of his creature, which he kept safely treasured, labeled, and isolated. It was a nuisance, and Sherlock was terrified of corrupting the files on his creature. Still, he felt open around John to a disconcerting extent, and the compliments he recieved provided the admiration and reassurance he had been sorely missing since-

Well, the admiration and reassurance that he craved. Really, Sherlock couldn't help but to show off to John. In the end, he gave in to the desire to bring him along when he went to the crime scene. A moment of weakness had him wistfully wondering if his being would have been so eager to tag along, so enthusiastic in the face of danger. Sherlock thought he would have, based on the exhilaration the entity had exhibited in times of danger.

Sherlock banished the thought, snapping up his collar and heading briskly out the door. He had other things to focus on. That's why he solved puzzles, after all. Every challenge he faced was a distraction from the silence where once there was an influx of _him_. It never worked completely, he was always aware on some level of the absence, but distraction was as close as Sherlock ever got to forgetting that constant ache. Sherlock didn't mind. The ache reassured him that it had been real. That it wasn't all some figment conjured in desperation and loneliness. Surely if that were the case then his creature wouldn't have perished.

He was dwelling more than usual, it wasn't like him to dwell when there was a case on. The uncharacteristic bout of nostalgia must have been inspired by the presence of Dr. Watson. He decided that answering the man's questions was as a good tactic for diverting such thoughts as any.

Sherlock wasn't sure what to think of the fact that apparently John Watson didn't immediately assume he was the killer.

"Did I just dial a murderer?"

Sherlock actually smiled.

'This John Watson had the potential to be,' Sherlock thought, 'if nothing else, entertaining.'

Little did he know, John Watson's propensity for defying expectations would surprise even the great Baker Street detective.


End file.
